Never Truly Hate
by inlovewithpadfoot
Summary: Severus Snape decides to visit Petunia Dursley to find a reason to blame someone. Will he find what he is looking for?


_A/N: I was reading Deathly Hallows again, when this idea came to me. I know it is absurd to think Severus Snape would ever go to visit Petunia, but just indulge me._

_And read and review, please. They truly make me happy._

It's a rare sunny November sky, and the occasional clouds are nothing but white tufts resembling cotton balls. A bird chirps from one of the trees, although I cannot see it. I look at the house in front of, then compare it to the one next to it.

There is no difference except maybe in the colors. Even then they are all the same bland variation of brown or beige. The gardens are symmetrical, and precise. Each one looks identical to the one next to it. The grass, a flat green, is cut mowed at the same height.

The cars have a uniformly polished sheen to them. None of them are too flashy or too beaten. They are average; just like everyone else on this street and the many other streets surrounding it.

I look back at the house in front of me. I have been standing here looking at it for almost half an hour debating.

I shouldn't be here. I should walk away and leave. There is nothing for me here, but something- some inexplicable pull forces me knock on number four, Privet Drive.

There is no answer for the longest time. I wonder if anyone is home. But just as I turn to leave, she opens the door.

She gasps and almost drops the pudgy boy resting on her waist. She hasn't changed much. Still the same blonde hair, horse-like face, and long neck. Her clothes are very conservative: a knee length polka dotted dress.

"Hello Petunia," I try for a smile, but I know it is a grimace. "May I come in?"

In her shock she moves to the side and allows me entry. She doesn't want to. I know she doesn't because she has always hated me.

On occasion I have wondered if it was because I took Lily away from her. It was I, after all who showed the redhead our magical world. Petunia was never a part of that world, and there is not-so-slim that possibility that she blames me for her sister being magical.

The house is just how I had imagined it, although I couldn't for the life of me tell you why I imagined it. Clean and normal. Not a speck of dust or mess in sight. Even with two toddlers in the house, it is in perfect order. Just like Petunia.

She does not ask me to sit, and even if she did I do not think I would have accepted the invitation. We stare at each other; black eyes gazing into brown. Even now, the childhood hatred is evident in her eyes. I wonder if my disgust with her is as noticeable.

The house is exceptionally quite. It makes me wonder if her husband is home, and ask her as such. Petunia numbly shakes her head, mumbling something about working with drills. I do not know nor care what drills are. Petunia still hasn't asked me to sit down, so I take a moment to look around the house some more. There are many pictures on the wall, but only of three people: Petunia, the child in her arms, and a fat man I remember Lily complaining about. The fourth might as well not have been here.

But he was here. I knew he was.

Lily's musings about her sister's husband still ring in my ears. As I look at the pictures I can see what she meant. The man truly is a walrus. Or a whale. Or a hideous combination of both.

"Wh-why are you here?" Petunia stammers, rocking the child back and forth. He is asleep within seconds. Petunia puts him down in a crib close by. I know she regrets letting me in her house, because her eyes are flitting around the room looking for an escape.

Another crying voice drowns my voice out. My heart leaps as I hear the voice. Petunia glances between me, her child, and the cupboard from where the wail has come. Finally, deciding that if she does not silence the crying baby, her sleeping child might awaken again, she runs to the cupboard and returns with another child.

His eyes are closed as Petunia scolds him. Everything about him is familiar from the mop of unruly black hair to the nose, to the chin except for the scar.

The scar that would make him famous around the world.

"Is it-?" I ask, my hand unconsciously reaching out to touch him: Harry.

Harry opens his eyes as if sensing that a stranger is about to touch him. My hand falters as those much too familiar green eyes gaze at me. I gasp and stumble backwards.

"They're just like her's aren't they?" Petunia asks me sadly. I don't think she meant to ask me that. Her immediate pursed lips indicate that it had been a slip of tongue.

I cannot answer. Memories are rushing past me. Every moment spent with Lily returns as the boy's eyes fix on me. Harry tilts his head to one side, observing me with rapt attention.

"Hi," he says softly. "I'm Hawwy."

I gulp, not trusting myself to speak. This was a mistake, a grave mistake. I have no idea what I had hoped to achieve, but this-this child-this reason for her death is not the one I had hoped to blame.

He is only three, but his eyes hold a sadness that makes him look much older.

Makes him look like Lily.

"I should go," I whisper hoarsely.

Harry nods sagely, as if he understands why I must go. "What's your name?"

"S-Se-Severus," I answer without thinking. It is the eyes. Those pair of green orbs could make me reveal my darkest secret without batting an eyelash.

Harry's face scrunches up in distress. "Sevus?"

"Severus," I repeat stupidly.

"Sev," Harry says firmly. "Sev."

It has the same caress as it did when Lily would say it.

Escape. I need escape. I cannot stand to look at him anymore. I cannot bear that _her_ eyes are on _his_ face.

I pull out my wand. Petunia's eyes widen in horror, and she attempts to shield the child. _His _child.

But, I do not curse her. I only Oblivate her, and put her into a temporary sleep. Harry looks at me curiously. I cannot Oblivate the child. It would be far to dangerous. I only hope that he does not remember when he is older.

"Bye Sev," Harry waves as I leave the house.

Years later, here in the dank dungeons I wonder if the eleven year old boy sitting before me remembers that day.

His confused expression as I verbally berate him on the first day of class dismiss such thoughts. Of course he doesn't remember. He was only a baby.

But even now as I try to hate him for having his father's face, his eyes make it impossible.

I can never truly hate him. As long as he has those penetrating eyes...never.


End file.
